An amalgamation of wanderlust and whispered stories

It’s literally been years. Yup. YEARS. Does anyone still go on WordPress anymore? Does anyone still read anything longer than 140 characters, or look at something with letters, ie. not a photoshopped picture?

If the answer is yes, throw me a teensy tiny bone and comment on this post!

In other news, if you’re just here to read, let me update you. The past few years have been marked by my ungraceful dive from university student to full fledged adult. These some 730+ days of existence have been me navigating a world I thought I totally knew but apparently totally did not- education. Who thought being a teacher was more social than academic? More marking than performing? More parents than students?

Certainly not I. Throughout all of this mess and confusion, I’ve never once stopped thinking about my writing. I think about my characters, sitting around in my head, impatiently tapping their foot while I flounder around pronouns and class etiquette. I think about the dirty glass windows covered in sheer ice in Ireland while in reality, snow piles in from broken windows in my classroom. I wonder if any of this is still relevant?

A reflection on the Writer-in-Residence program at McMaster University and my personal experience meeting fellow inspiring writers!

From: http://thepaperstreetjournal.com/read/industrial-art/

INDUSTRIOUS ART

04/14/2016

If grit and beauty both inspire and repulse you, you’ve likely found a home in Hamilton.

There is no one word to describe a city. Poverty, potholes–even beauty is an unfair hole in which to sink a city. The ever-changing pulse of a place constantly cultivates new talent and creates new possibilities. We are lucky to experience a great shift in Hamilton from industrial work to industrious art. The reflection of these possibilities reside in the hearts and work of artists.

Recently, McMaster University held an evening at the Faculty Hall celebrating the Writer-in-Residence program. Burlington native Kim Echlin was the 2015-2016 Writer-in-Residence, whose newest novel, Under the Visible Life, was recently featured atHamilton’s GritLIT festival. To accompany the evening was pianist Jason Scozzari, a McMaster piano student who picked up the art at the late age of fourteen. Together, these two harmonized a duet of words and music that inspired the audience.

Alongside her daily work as a writer, Echlin involved herself with the Hamilton arts and library community. She has been a hugely positive influence in the community, helping local writers cultivate their craft and perfect their work for various modes.

Seven writers from across the city gathered at the event to share their writing with the audience. All seemed influenced by Hamilton in one way or another, and all seemed proud to share bits and pieces of the city as their characters experienced it.

Each author’s piece of writing created a puzzle, evoking intense imagery and diverse voices. Poverty was a central theme in multiple stories, one in particular discussing a woman from Wentworth Street who was weathered from a harsh life of mental illness and homelessness. Another story contrasted this through the life of a musician, living with her family on the Mountain Brow and dealing with lifelong struggles of her own.

Two brave authors shared pieces of their memoirs. One discussed a harsh reality of the closet in the dark basement becoming the caregiver to multiple children. In a weathered breath, another author shared his stories of sailing in the GTA. These truths shared by Hamilton writers were both relatable and inspiring to the audience. It was a riveting evening for all.

Writing, if done properly, sheds a light of truth on any subject. To continue the journey, follow this link to read the bios and excerpts of these brave writers living and working in Hamilton.

In a group, there is little room for doubt. The supportive atmosphere, the excitement of hearing something new, and the opportunity for growth are all contagious parts of the writers group dynamic. I experienced this on Saturday.

Kim Echlin (The Disappeared, nominated for the 2009 Giller Prize), the current Writer-in-Residence at McMaster University, hosted a writers workshop at the Hamiltion Public Library’s Central location. Local writers in association with Kim were asked to read scenes from their writing. Many who attended were also aspiring writers curious about the craft itself.

For me, I have always been a “closeted writer.” I love to write, and I’ve worked at it for as long as I can remember. However, I’ve never shared my writing with a group of people. Only this year have I finally allowed someone in the writing community to read my work and offer commentary. From this authentic experience, I have gained confidence as a writer and improved my writing skills.

Kim has been an excellent shepherd in the writing community through her support in helping new writers emerge and take pride in their work. With a kind spirit and sweet disposition, Kim’s comments are always open-minded and thoughtful. She has reminded me that writing doesn’t always have to be a lonely or solitary struggle.

The following are some tips from Kim and the seven writers present at the event, in response to questions asked by audience members:

Some tips about “Writer’s Block”

Everyone experiences writer’s block at some point in their writing journey.

This usually stems from fear, the feeling of inadequacy or an unknown twist in the plot

Writing is the best medicine for writer’s block. Whatever you do, get your butt in the chair and WRITE

Try writing some “jibber jabber” or “free writing.” The process of allowing your mind to wander and allowing your characters to take you on a journey may help you reach the next part in your writing

JUST WRITE

Some tips on “Self-Doubt”

Your writing just is. It exists, it is there, it is open for judgement. No one person will think about your writing in the same way as another.

Surround yourself with a supportive group that will help you grow, not push you down

Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. You are entitled to write.

Criticism can help you grow as a writer, but negativity is not necessary

Keep an open mind

Oftentimes, we write because we can’t not write.

Write for yourself. Keep in mind the personal reason you have for writing and never let anyone change that.

In March I will be reading an excerpt from my young adult novel to a crowd of academics. As terrifying as this is, I am quite excited to take on a new challenge! Here it is:

“What do you think this says” Charlie handed her a notebook, open to a page in the center. Sofia took the book and stared at the page. It looked like a poem, thoroughly torn apart and re-examined by the looks of the scribbles around it. She stared for a moment, Charlie watching her patiently. His deep eyes were too intense on her and she got up, twisting and turning with the boxes to the window seat. A slight cloud of dust puffed out of the velour red seat as she studied the writing. To anyone else, the words would appear as intricate lines, but Sofia’s own writing, so much like her fathers, allowed her to recognize words.

It was as if a part of him was in the room with her, reading out his words from over her shoulder. Out loud, for Charlie’s benefit, she recited:

When the winds will dies

And the waves all melt away

I will come to you through perfect peace

To guide your light

Home.

Curious. “That’s it?” asked Charlie, his voice hopeful. Sofia flipped the pages. It didn’t seem like the end. The diary continued, but the flow was off.

“Yeah, it looks like there was something else, but… I don’t know. I think a page was ripped out.”

Charlie shimmied his way over to the window seat, sitting beside her. “What’s next?”

Sofia hadn’t looked up. It was a list of numbers. Charlie gently took the book. She watched as his brow furrowed. “What do you think it means?”

Sofia shrugged. She wasn’t interested in money. She wanted to keep flipping the pages for a clue, an entry, anything to help her find him. Charlie, sensing her impatience, flipped quickly through the rest of the book. It wasn’t finished, but the numbers kept going, down the page, until the end. He shrugged to her.

“I want to figure out what it means,” he said. She nodded and returned to her box. There was so much more to look for… and if Charlie could figure out the numbers then maybe they could be one step closer to finding her father.

Sofia rummaged through what seemed like junk to her. Boxes full of odds and ends, knick-knacks, broken candles, scrap pieces of paper… her fingers landed on something cool and she pulled it out, an old clock falling out of the box and clanging onto the wooded floor. Her knees fell softly to the floor and she proper herself up on her heels. Beside the clock was something else, something familiar. A bottle. She held a bottle in her hand, smooth as butter and the cool to the touch. It looked like it could have held wine at one point, the thin neck and protruding body seemed worn out on the inside, as if tired from the remnants of a later substance. But Sofia was looking past all of that- her eyes were transfixed on the small scroll of paper inside, tightly bound with a black ribbon keeping it together. Her stomach dropped… what could it be? Her fingers traced tiny numbers etched in the glass neck.

Charlie looked up from staring at the numbers in the book and watched as she examined the bottle.

“Pull the cork out,” he didn’t understand what she was waiting for.

Sofia looked at him, a flash of annoyance in her eyes.

“Look at the neck… there are numbers here…”

“Which the letter inside will probably explain,” finished Charlie. Why was he so impatient to open it? He didn’t know- all he knew what that the bottle needed to be opened. What was inside? What was the point of waiting?

Sofia looked at the book in his hands, “maybe the number is in the book,” she sat unsure, “here, give me the book and you take the cork out.”

They passed both the book and the bottle between them, Sofia’s fingers brushing against the soft leather as Charlies fingers tingled on the cool bottle. Neither could let go of the bottle. Before they could say a word, both of them were jolted as if with lightening, their shock on their faces registering only a moment before they were taken out of their world and plunged into a new one entirely.